Stations
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: 2 part Dublin-inspired fluffy.
1. Chapter 1

**Stations**

I

There were times in your life, Brendan realized, when your hands just stopped what they were doing, and all there was, was the long slow thump of your heart, contracting and re-opening, pumping the blood to every part of you, nerve endings alert. In the past, very few of these moments had been good. They had all been about fear, and denial, and betrayal, and mistrust, and hate. They had been about closing down, screwing your eyes shut until it was over, a refusal to be hurt, a refusal of closeness, of intimacy, a curling up into a ball after, all feeling eliminated except the basic will to survive. Amazing how powerful that was. And he'd had to keep it up, because the first time he'd let his guard down, let himself feel something, it had all blown up in his face, and he'd actually ended up wanting to die, and nearly achieving it. So he'd decided there was no way he was going there again. When he got older, of course, the fear was gone. He made it go away, with his fists mostly. He made sure it was the other person who was scared now. Being an adult was a liberation. No one would hurt him again, he was in control, no one would get close. Everyone was at his disposal.

He had hurt people. Someone, in particular. It seemed the only way to go. And he'd done it over and over, until he realized he didn't know how to stop. And suddenly, eventually, gradually, he did want to stop. Probably the day he realized that it didn't stop him hurting. It just hurt even more. Every punch was like knives, cutting parts of him out, and there was little enough left already. So he left. It had felt like freedom, needing no one. It had taken him a while to realise it was a death sentence.

All of which left him trying to understand what it meant when you opened the door one night, in the place that you'd gone to run away, where no one could find you, and when you were just settling down to be fucking miserable with your first whiskey of the evening, only to find someone standing there, slender in a dark jacket, with his collar turned up and two bags and a really determined pout that ran slightly against the wariness in his eyes, his eyelashes casting long shadows over his cheeks.

"All right, Brendan?"

And feeling his hands and heart stop, just for a moment.

II

He had tried to get rid of him, obviously. He hadn't spent his life building walls just to let them all crumble at the first sign of a pair of pouting lips on his doorstep, though god knows, they were beautiful lips. He'd brought him inside. He could hardly leave him on the step.

"I've left Doug."

He felt his shoulders sag. Felt an ache somewhere in the middle of his back. They had done all this. It was just too heavy to carry anymore.

"Ye haven't left Douglas, Steven. He loves you. You love him. You got … married … partnered … whatever. He sat with you, all that time, when you were sick."

And yet strangely, all Brendan could think was that he didn't look sick now. He looked amazing. He glowed, like some light had been turned on inside him. It made you want to warm your hands. He didn't, though.

"That's not love, though, is it?" Steven said. "I know that now."

"What do ye mean?"

"That … needing someone … anyone really … needing to be needed. Falling for the first person that's interested in you. First person that shows you a friendly face."

There was no arguing with that. He'd thought it often himself. But he wasn't giving up. Folded his arms across his body, and contemplated the young guy facing him. Set his jaw against the temptation it offered. Shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"

"Everything," Steven had said. Then, biting his lip. "We're not even that friendly, really. Not now."

Brendan had rolled his eyes, sighed. "It's just … teething troubles. I don't know. Go home, Steven."

Then a pair of eyes, meeting his, direct. A face, serious, adult.

"Don't patronize me, Brendan." A shock, that made him button his lip. "I know what he did."

"Do you?"

"Yes. He tried to get you put away. I guess he thought it would solve all of our problems."

Brendan looked down for a moment. "It probably would."

"No," Steven said, "it wouldn't. Getting you put away wouldn't change … anything. The whole thing would be a lie. It still wouldn't be love."

Brendan shook his head. He had sort of lost faith in love. It just felt like a slap around the face most of the time, then a punch in the gut, then a final kicking when you were down, just for good measure. "So what would be?"

And Steven had looked at him, determined. Taken a deep breath. Then stepped closer.

"This."

III

Someone had got to him. One man had. It was the biggest surprise of his life, and not a pleasant one. Well, there was pleasure, there was intense pleasure, Steven was always intensely pleasurable, but what came with it ripped a hole through the certainties of his life. He had no idea when he had slid from playing with him, to wanting to hold on to him, to needing him, to loving him, to almost hating him, to adoring him, the man he was, like he was the missing piece, the man Brendan wished he was, and wasn't. A moment, in a basement cellar, when Steven said he would go, and he had told him he didn't want him to, when he'd started to feel everything sliding away. A moment in a hospital when Steven had wept for his kids, and he'd found himself cradling him, wanting to look after him, in a way he'd never felt in his life, and that he repressed with some viciousness. A moment when Steven was walking away, throwing him off, saying a load of stuff about what he was, and he'd felt a desperate desire for Steven just to understand him, and he'd heard his own voice break for the first time in a long time.

Moments when his day actually picked up because he saw that lanky figure out of the corner of his eye, across the village, or coming towards him. When things he said and did actually made him smile. When having him seemed like the only priority, getting him alone so he could press him up against the wall and crush his mouth and your groin against his, hot and hard. And then moments when he wanted to get him into a big bed, and watch his face while he fucked him, and then watch him come, his face flushed and his mouth open and his breathing heavy and his voice crying out, and his whole body giving it up. And moments where just for a second, he lost himself, where there were no words and no breath, just his back arching and his cock and balls exploding, and muscles rippling together, and his mouth buried in the side of someone's hair, and a feeling of being held as he came down, legs wrapped around him, hands almost shy on his back. That made him feel younger than he really was, like ten years had been wiped off his tally. Moments when he didn't really want to send him away. Moments when it was so easy for Steven to tempt him back, just with a word and a kiss and a touch and one of those smiles, completely knowing, completely, insanely, desirable.

And other moments, the other side, what came with it. Knowing that he had to protect him, that he couldn't let him get hurt. Doing something terrible, a mortal sin, to make sure he stayed alive, and safe. And then when Steven had found out, he'd been appalled, disgusted, backed away. Trying to get him back, and going about it the wrong way every time. Even when he told him he loved him, it hung between them, what he'd done, who he was, who he just couldn't be. Trying and failing, over and over, finding it was all too late, and finally letting go.

It had been a difficult journey, most of it in the dark. An education harder than anything else he'd tried to learn in a world where a lot of things came easy to him. Trying to understand what it meant, when even when someone wasn't even in your damn life anymore, all over, finished, your heart still contracted and re-opened when they walked into a room, looked at you, talked to you. Trying to understand why doing the right thing seemed to mean the equivalent of cutting your own heart out with a rusty spoon and offering it up to be stamped on, as you watched the person who felt like a part of you, your best part, the part hidden right under your ribs, folded into you, get hitched to some guy you couldn't stand the sight of.

Falling for someone, for the first time in his life, at 33, contrary to what the Father had tried to tell him (it made him a better man, apparently) didn't really seem to have worked out for him.

IV

Steven had great hands. It surprised him, in a way; he hadn't expected him to be as capable as he'd turned out to be, but then a lot of things had surprised him about Steven. He was good at his job, careful and neat, not the mess of chaos he seemed at first. He could cook. He liked the way Steven stirred his tea, bashing the teaspoon against the rim of the mug with gusto at the end, before handing it over. And he saw him walking the kids to school, holding their hands, sure of himself in being a Dad, if nothing else. They were strong, those hands, with long dexterous fingers, which he put to very good use. It was one of the completely seductive things about Steven, the feel of those hands in Brendan's hair when Brendan kissed him, fucked him, or on his back, or his backside, clutching, stroking. It was addictive. He never stopped to think much about it at the time, but now he realized that it was as much wanting Steven's touch as wanting to touch him that kept sending him back to peel off his clothes.

But there was a downside, there always was. He was very tactile. And Brendan didn't do tactile, not with men, anyway. Behind closed doors, yeah, that was different, he touched them in all sorts of ways, and he wanted to touch Steven more than most. His jawline, his chin, his mouth, his neck, his hair, his narrow shoulders, the muscles of his chest, they were irresistible to him, not just the feel of them under his fingers, but the way that Steven so obviously melted, even against his will. But Steven's joy in being touched extended to touching back. His hand was on Brendan's waist, or over his hand, and in places where people might see. Brendan was always ducking away, snatching his hand back, throwing the lad off, a constant rejection. Just one time, back in the early days, when he'd tried to be what Steven seemed to want him to be, and he'd known he couldn't do it, he'd just stroked his fingers across the back of Steven's hand. It lasted less than a second. Then he'd left without even saying he was going.

There was a time when he'd thought he never wanted to feel Steven's touch again. He shrank from it. He'd spent months inside for something he didn't do, when no one had believed him, no one, a time when pretty much every touch his body knew was violence. Every night, over and over. It brought back memories. Things that still sat in his head, in a very dark place. When he got out, the very idea that Steven's hands could know him again disgusted him. No one would hurt him again, and no one would know him. He made damn sure he would never feel that touch again.

He never expected to feel Steven's hands on him again, after that. He'd thought he could manage without it. But he was wrong. He knew it the moment he'd seen Steven touch someone else. It tore at him, like fingers. The whole thing had been a massive mistake, and he'd blown it. Game over.

And yet the miracle was, months later, when the bottom dropped out of his world, when everything just fucking fell apart, and he'd thought it was all his fault, it was Steven's hands that were there to catch him when he fell. It was like he just reached out for him, and he was being held, and holding on. He barely remembered it really, he had been a mess, his friend lying there dead in the village, but he did remember Steven's warmth, and that there was an arm around his neck, and a head against his shoulder, and another arm around his back, as he just rocked from foot to foot and noises came out of his mouth that he hadn't even known he could make anymore, and Steven was just quiet, and let him.

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" Steven had asked him later, and Brendan had been confused. He coped on his own, he always did.

"Like what?" he asked him.

And Steven had offered to sit with Cheryl. Just that, like it was obvious. And it was obvious, when he said it. So he left his sister with Steven, and when he got back, she was ready to leave, which was exactly what he'd wanted but couldn't make her understand.

"Thank you," he said to Steven, as he got into the car, and left him. And he was grateful, that he had someone he could lean on, who could take on some of the load, and made it look so easy.

After that, it seemed that he was always there when Brendan needed him. Keeping an eye on Declan, when god knows he owed him nothing. Helping out with Joel. Tying Brendan's shoelaces and bringing him fucking jam sandwiches when he got hurt through his own stupidity and was stuck in a wheelchair and could barely wipe his own arse. Standing beside him, a hand squeezing his shoulder, when they brought Lynsey's body home. Making coffee at the funeral.

It had taken him a long while to realize that pretty much his whole damn life was in Steven's hands.

The last time he'd seen those hands, they'd been resting on the covers of a hospital bed. He had felt like the world was ending. He hadn't known what to do. There was nothing he could do. He had taken the chain from around his own neck, where he always wore it, and kissed it, and wrapped it around one of those unconscious hands. The left one, closest to the heart. It was all he had. It would have to do.

If I ever had a chance, Brendan had thought, looking at Steven's hand resting on the covers, and the chain draped across the skin, if we could both walk out of here now, I'd take hold of that hand, and I'd never fucking let go. That'd show him.

But they'd never walk out of there together now. The fact that he had someone else's ring on the third finger of the same hand told him that.

He'd stroked his hair back from his brow. Said his name, and waited to see if the eyelids would move. Maybe they had, he wasn't sure. Probably imagined it. So he'd kissed him on the forehead.

"Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine," he told him, against the skin. There wasn't anything more he could do to shelter him now. He just wanted him to survive. Didn't matter who with. But please let him survive.

And then left him. It felt like dying. As soon as he heard he would pull through, he packed a bag and left on the first flight he could get.

V

It was when he'd been pulling Steven's T shirt over his head that he'd first caught sight of it.

It had taken them a while to get there. He had given everything he had to keep Steven away. There had been a long, tense, conversation, in which Brendan had given every reason why this was not love, or it wasn't enough, and Steven should not be with him, and Steven had listened, and had given him every reason why it was, in spite of everything, or maybe because of everything, and it had to be worth giving it a chance, because it was more than enough, it was all he wanted, and how Brendan had better shut up and let them be together or he would regret it.

"I hurt you, Steven."

"I know, I was there. But I know you've changed."

"I'm still me. I hate what I did. There wouldn't be enough time in the world for me to make it up to you. But I'm still me. And I ain't worth the risk."

"What if I said I forgave you?"

"I don't …"

"You don't have to flipping well deserve it. I know you don't deserve it. No one deserves it, not really. But I do. I trust you."

"Why?"

"I don't know! I just do. I feel safe with you."

"Safe!"

"Yes. Just … I know you won't let me down. Don't let me down, Brendan, please. I'm sick of being let down. And I've come a long way for this. We both have, haven't we?"

"It's not enough …"

"Well, what is? Just … it feels right. Give it a chance."

"I can't …"

"God! What is the matter with you? I'm right here! I want you, I still want you. In spite of everything. I just want to try. Don't you want me anymore? I know you do!"

A pause.

"I don't."

"Don't you fucking lie to me, Brendan. Don't even dare. Just … don't. After everything we've been through. I can see right through you."

Still crying, though.

"I don't. I don't. You need to go."

"We've been round and round and round this though! Life's too short to waste any more of it, we both know that. Don't you want to stop it?"

"I am stopping it."

"You're not! You're just being a total stupid pig-head, like you always are."

"Thanks."

"Right, one last chance. Do. You. Want. Me?"

A pause.

"No."

"You bastard. That's it. Be on your own, then. You useless bastard. But don't even say to me I never gave you this chance. We're not all cowards like you."

And Steven had picked up his bags and left, his face stained and streaked by the pain of yet another rejection. There are only so many tears you can keep shedding over each other, Brendan had reasoned, as he'd wiped his own face like a fool, knowing for sure that this would be the last time, and he'd never be back.

He'd sat there, alone, in the dark, not moving, looking down at his whiskey. It felt like every single part of his body ached. He clasped his hands together, hard, to try to stop the pain. Head bowed. He rocked. His chest felt constricted, like he could hardly breathe, even when he gasped for air. He didn't know how long he lasted. Probably five minutes. But they were the longest five minutes of his life. Then his hands went to his neck, to something he sometimes used to touch when he needed strength. And it was missing. Of course, sure. Something was missing. Something was missing. Something he needed. Something he needed to live.

Then before he knew it, he'd been running after him, his chest banging, feeling like if he didn't catch him, he might as well drink himself to death, or throw himself into the Liffey, or both. There was no life without Steven. He might as well cut off his own arms and legs. What a dick he'd been, what a total feckin' idiot to even think he could have any life without him. Steven had stood there and offered to love him. Proper, lasting love. And you only get one chance, don't you, if you're lucky. He was being given a chance. He didn't have to keep saying no.

He had grabbed something, quickly, from a drawer, on the spur of the moment, with clumsy, rushed hands. Something that might explain better than words. For a second, he stood, hands shaking, then took a breath, and picked up a pen. When he was done, he closed his hand around it. Then ran out into the night, banging the door behind him.

He'd finally found him on the Ha'penny Bridge, just when he'd been starting to think he'd never find him. Standing there with his bags, looking down into the water, miserable.

There had been a row, obviously. They always rowed, it was what they did, tear chunks out of each other for loving each other and making each other's lives so bloody difficult. Then Brendan had done something. And Steven had been quiet. And then very close. And then he'd been kissing him. And then they had both been laughing. Total, total feckin disbelief. He picked up Steven's bags and took him back to the flat. He didn't think he'd stopped smiling, his face felt like it had cracked, like it was someone else's. And he hadn't seen Steven look that happy, when he glanced at him, the whole time he'd known him. Two years. More. Steven's arm was around his waist. Every so often, he'd look up at him, and laugh, his teeth white, and his mouth wide, and as much surprise and disbelief in his eyes as there was in Brendan's own. Unreal. Real. Happy.

When they got back to the flat, bags were dropped, and he was kissing Steven again, and being kissed back. Steven was pushing his coat off, and he heard it land on the floor, heavy, while he fumbled with the buttons on Steven's jacket, and again, those hands were helping him, while his mouth kept pressing up to Brendan's, opening, a tongue flickering over his lips, as he'd flickered his over Steven's on the Bridge, to taste him, and to make him smile. For a while, they just kissed, Brendan feeling his back hit the wall of the hall, and Steven's hands all over his torso, even under his top, his fingers feeling for skin and hair like he had missed it more than anything. Shoes were kicked off. And then he had grabbed the hem of Steven's dark grey sweater and T shirt, all in one, and pulled it off over his head, leaving the front of his hair disheveled. And Brendan's hands had stopped, and his heart. Not because of the stretches of golden ski n, taut over the muscles, which knocked the air out of his body and made his throat tighten, he had missed it so much. There was no one, anywhere, even if he looked until he was a hundred, as beautiful as Steven Hay in the buff. He couldn't believe now how easily he'd taken him back in the old days. Now, he felt like he barely deserved him, although the way that Steven was looking at him, and his naked chest rising and falling, it looked like he didn't share Brendan's qualms on that front. But that's not what stopped him. What stopped him was what had been underneath the clothes, around Steven's neck. Silver, shining, like it belonged there, against his breastbone.

His cross.

He looked down at it. Steven's left hand came up, almost in an almost unconscious gesture, to cover it, as if he was shy about it, or it was precious. It was impossible not to notice, as if he even needed more proof of Steven's intentions, that there was no ring on the third finger of that hand now. Brendan put the hand aside, gently. Picked the crucifix up between his own fingers. Ran a thumb over it, felt its familiarity, but its strangeness, on Steven.

"How long have you been wearing this?" he asked, looking down into the face which was still soft and open and dark with wanting him.

"Since I decided to come and get you," Steven said, quiet, like it was obvious. "But I kept it on me before."

He nodded, but hardly took it in.

"Do you remember me leaving it?" Brendan asked him, hearing an unfamiliar shake somewhere in his own voice.

Steven shook his head. "I knew when I woke up that you'd been there, though." His voice dropped, soft. "It meant the world to me, that."

Brendan shook his head. "I had nothing else to give you."

"But I knew what it meant," Steven said to him. "Protection, right? Like someone watching over you."

Brendan looked into his eyes. Steven had beautiful eyes. They were unguarded, honest, heartfelt.

"I didn't do a very good job of protecting you, did I?" Brendan said, remembering what it felt over those first few hours, waiting to hear if Steven would be all right.

"You did," Steven said. "I felt protected. I had something to hang on to."

Brendan felt his words dry in his mouth.

"I told you you made me feel safe." Steven's voice was soft. Their eyes held. Then his hands both went to the chain at his neck, as if to take it off.

"Here, it's yours, you should have it back."

He put both his hands over Steven's, resting on his collar bone.

"I don't want it back," Brendan said. Steven's eyes were looking up at him. "It's yours, now."

"So … you don't?"

Brendan shook his head. "No. You can't give back what's yours. It belongs to you. Wear it."

Steven's eyebrows went up. "Really? Wear it? What, like always?"

"Yeah," Brendan said to him. "Always is good."

And he was rewarded by the smile that widened Steven's already wide mouth. Steven's hand came up and rested on his chest. He felt his heartbeat against it, slow and steady and absolutely sure. And then he was kissing him again, long and soft and deep. In between kisses, he spoke against Steven's lips.

"Besides," he said. "It looks hot on you."

Steven laughed, soft and low, and flirtatious. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," Brendan said, running one hand over the chain lying against Steven's neck, and then lowering his hands to Steven's belt, and unbuckling. "Seriously hot."

It was a miracle they made it to the bedroom really. Brendan would have made love to him on the floor of the hallway, he wanted him that badly, but this wasn't just the scratching of a sexual itch. It was about being with someone, completely private, shutting the door on the world. Brendan walked them backwards to guide the way while Steven stripped the grey jersey top over his head and their chests made contact, Brendan picking Steven up so his feet were off the floor for the last few yards, and dumping him on the bed, laughing. By the time they got there, it was finally sinking in that this was it, that totally incredible thing, him and Steven, and not one damn interruption. No one knew where they were, either of them, except each other. Doors were locked. Curtains were drawn. They had all night. Something told him they had all their fecking lives, for as long as those might be. He bent over and pulled Steven's grey jeans and boxers off together, leaving him for a moment in only his socks. The face that looked up at him was a tease. Then he took each foot in turn, rested it against his shoulder, peeled off the sock, ran his thumb along the arch, and then kissed it, watching the effect it had on Steven's breathing. Then unbuckled, shed the rest of his clothes on the floor, crawled on top. Felt their bodies make contact, Steven's light and strong and smooth-skinned and soft-haired. For a second, he just looked down at him. He ran his nose along Steven's. Then Steven smiled at him. Arms reached around his neck.

He kissed him.


	2. Chapter 2

VI

"What's that?" Steven asked him, standing on the bridge, looking angry. The kind of angry that suggests you've been angry for two years and have pretty much had enough. Damn, and he still looked so fucking desirable, and funny, and impressive, even when he was pissed like this.

"It's a lock, Steven." He was still out of breath. He wasn't sure if it was the running, or the fact that his heart still seemed to be racing of its own accord.

"Yeah, I can see that, Brendan. How's that supposed to help here, exactly?"

"It's …"

"Because, I swear, I am done here. I have had enough. I am going back to that airport, and going home to me kids, and no one is stopping me."

"Steven …"

"Because know what, Brendan? I have made a right fool of myself, here. I've come all the way to bloody Dublin to find you, because I really thought maybe you still cared about me, I mean proper cared about me, and you'd changed, and you've just shown me the bloody door, and I tell you right here, I am better than that. I never should have come here. I'm a right idiot."

"No, Steven …"

"I didn't have to come here, you know. I could have just walked away from both of you. I've got my whole life for this. I don't need anyone, me, except me kids. So if you don't want me …"

"I do. I do want you …"

"… I am gone. I don't need this. I'm not like some toy that everyone can play with. I just want to get on with my life, cos it's bloody short enough as it is, and I'm sure as hell going to go and get what I want, even if you're too scared to, or too fucking proud …" A pause for breath, finally. Then a change of tone. "What?"

"I do want you. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. I want you. "

"You do?" A change of the light, in Steve's eyes. Maybe just a trick of the streetlamps. Maybe not.

"Yes."

A silence. Awkward. Take advantage of it now, while he's run out of steam.

"Look, Steven … I got you this. It's yours. For you."

Steven's face. Still unsure. Somewhere halfway between doubt and hope.

"What is it?"

"Take it."

Passing it to him. For a moment, their hands brushed in the exchange, then parted again. He stood closer now, watching Steven weigh it in the palm of his hand, his brow furrowed, confused.

"It's got our names on."

He looked down at the bent head, that he badly wanted to touch, but didn't.

"It's like a tradition, Steven. You write your name on it, and the person you love, and you lock it up, somewhere you can see it, and you give them the key."

"Why?" His nose, a bit wrinkled, as he looked up. He was always just a bit slow about realizing how completely and seductively adorable he was.

Brendan took a step even closer now. So close that he could see drops of evening moisture that wasn't completely rain yet on Steven's wool jacket.

"So the other person knows that you belong to them. And it's for keeps. And it's up to them what they do about it."

Strictly speaking, it couldn't be healthy for a man's heart to be pounding this much. Steven was looking at him, understanding dawning on his face. His lips slightly open. He took the lock back out of Steven's hands.

"Here," he said. "I'll show you."

He reached up and clasped it around part of the bridge's ironwork. Several others already hung there. He felt it clunk shut. He knew it wouldn't stay there forever. They never did. But what it meant … that was forever. He turned back to Steven. Took one of his hands, and folded the key into it.

"There ye go. It's yours. Do what you want with it. Unlock it, keep it for another day, whatever."

"Bren…"

"I love you, Steven. That's what it means. But it's up to you what you do with it. It has to be your choice."

Steven stood, turning the key over in his hand, looking down at it. Then back up at Brendan. Then turned towards the side of the bridge and looked out at the river. He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly, he held the key out between two clasped hands. Looked back over his shoulder. There was what felt like a very long pause, while Steven looked at him, biting his lip. Then suddenly,

"I don't think we're gonna be needing this again, are we?" he said.

For a moment, their eyes held. Brendan felt like his breathing had stopped. He didn't want to do anything that would change what Steven might do. It hung in the balance.

And Steven opened his hands and let it fall into the dark water.

It was the strangest feeling. It was like part of Brendan was gone, went with it. The worst part. The best part, what there was of it, was right here, but he'd given that away as well. Part of him was at the bottom of the Liffey. And the other part was with Steven. He felt a weird lightness, that he didn't think he'd ever felt before.

Stepped closer to Steven again. Very close. Put his forehead against Steven's. It seemed like Steven was almost crying.

"I love you," Steven said.

So he kissed him, to stop him crying. And then Steven wasn't crying, he was smiling. He hadn't kissed Steven Hay for a long time. Year and a half. Fucking year and a half of living without him. No one could ever have told him how much that would hurt, how it would seep into his soul, the feeling of having missed something, out of his own cowardice, an inability to let go and just let himself be happy, and make someone else happy. He'd never believed, maybe, that he could ever make anyone happy, and definitely not someone like Steven. He never had before. But he was finding there was a first time for everything.

He ran his tongue along Steven's lips, felt them open wider and Steven laugh at the back of his throat. To his surprise, he was laughing as well. Laughing, and kissing, that was new. People passed by them with shopping bags, going one way over the Liffey, or the other. But Steven's hand was on the back of his head, and he was kissing him.

"Gonna take me home, then?" Steven said, eventually. His eyes, starstruck, the lights of the bridge reflected in them, his breath condensing a bit in the air. It was a damn cold evening. But Steven felt warm.

Home? God, the flat in Dublin had never been a home for anyone. It was where he'd gone when he was there on business. Or just on a bender, running away. He'd often used it when he'd been married, leaving Eileen and the kids in Belfast, retreat, go out, get a shag, come back, get blind drunk. But now … yeah, he'd take Steven home. There was no food in, but he'd go out early, while Steven was still sleeping, and bring him home breakfast to eat in bed. Whatever those things were he liked sometimes. Croissants. There would be crumbs in the bedclothes. There would be crumbs on Steven's lips, and he'd lick them off. They wouldn't have to get up. And when they did, there'd be the shower. And after that, he'd show him Dublin. He'd hold his fucking hand all the way up and down O'Connell if he wanted him to. But that was tomorrow. This was tonight.

"Yeah," Brendan said. He stroked his face.

Then something weird happened. He felt his face cracked into a grin that seemed to mirror the daft arse smile on Steven's face. God, what a pair. But who gave a shit? You only get one chance, right? He'd had to wait a long time for his.

He picked up one of Steven's bags.

"Come home with me, then," he said.

And they strode off the bridge together, Steven almost running to stay alongside him, no more time to waste, faces split. A couple of idiots.

VII

It felt strange. And it felt completely, absolutely right, getting to know Steven's body again. Not that there was really any time to stop and be slow, deliberate. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe all the other times that he was going to make love to him, that suddenly opened up like a life he'd never let himself really think about. The main sensation now was just one of wanting to be with him again, like a rush of blood to the head, an injection of fizz straight to the central nervous system, an injection of Steven, just wanting him, stopping thinking, stopping worrying, stopping hurting, stopping all the crap that seemed to have come between them for two years, and for once in his life, just feeling. It was a buzz, like no other buzz he'd ever known. Was this what it meant to be happy with someone? Steven sounded happy, arching his back, sighing and moaning and half laughing as Brendan kissed his way down Steven's neck, over the adam's apple, into the dip at the base of his throat, and on down across the breast bone, where the silver cross lay against his skin. He spent a bit of time on each of the brown nipples, feeling Steven practically purring, and then on down, past the weird little sticking out belly button Steven had, teasing it with his tongue and feeling Steven's body freeze with the sensitivity of it. He looked up, briefly, and saw the smile on Steven's face. He realized he was doing the same. God, were they never going to stop smiling? Well, maybe for a second. While he was busy with his tongue, licking down the soft hairy belly and feeling Steven's cock spring up under his chin, aroused. And there was no way he was wasting that.

God, he had missed Steven. All of him. The wingspan tattoo on the still prominent hip bone, though not so skinny now, that he rubbed with his thumb. And this bit, especially, but all of him, how sensitive he was, how licking his cock seemed to send waves of sensation rippling up through his abdomen to his stomach and heart, like everything in him was just connected, and sex was never just sex. He abandoned himself to it, like no one else had ever known. It was impossible to know if he abandoned himself like this with anyone else, but something told Brendan the answer was no. Something about the way Steven's hand gripped his hair, and the way he pushed up his pelvis, like maybe he'd been missing this as well, and by the way he said Brendan's name when Brendan took that cock into his mouth and started to work on it, working his lips down to the base, burying his nose in the light brown hair, his hand under Steven's balls, holding, massaging. The taste of him. The smell of him. The same as before, but different, like when you go back somewhere you haven't been for a long time. You can't really get back what you knew before, but what's there now is more real. Everything about Steven was as he remembered, nothing disappointed, but it was different. It was better. He tasted better, smelled better, his skin was smoother, his muscles firmer. He just seemed … perfect. And he belonged to him. He was his. Maybe that was what made the difference.

He felt Steven's legs spreading under the attentions from his tongue and cheek muscles and fingers. He allowed a finger to find a way behind those balls, and stroke its way to Steven's tight entry, and across it, feeling Steven holding his breath. Then dropped his cock for a moment, to lick a finger. Then went back to work. This time, he let the finger breach him, and felt tightness clamping round him. Steven's breathing was quickening, he could practically feel his pulse racing from down there. It really wasn't hard to know what he wanted, his body talked a language that came through loud and clear. Maybe he should just have listened to that right at the beginning, but then sex had never been the problem. It was everything else that was the problem. Now … not one. Nothing. It was unbelievable. He pushed in further, felt Steven relax into it. Then added another, and felt the pulse around them quicken again, throbbing. He didn't know when he had ever enjoyed anyone else's pleasure so much. Never. Never, really. Making someone else come isn't the same as caring if they're with you.

Steven didn't let Brendan bring him to climax though. When his body was hot with excitement, and the moans were getting more frequent, he felt those fingers pulling at his hair again. Let Steven's cock drop from his mouth again, and looked up at him.

Still smiling.

"Want you up here," Steven said, his face flushed.

"Want you everywhere," Brendan said to him, and shifted his weight, so he was back face to face.

He felt his own cock stiffen now against Steven's.

"All right?" he asked him. He didn't even know why. He just wanted him to speak really.

Steven nodded. "Definitely all right." He felt Steven's legs wrap round him, like an instinct. "You?"

Had anyone ever asked him that? Ever? Just if he was all right? "Never better," he said. He stroked his face. Nuzzled his lips, felt them open again. He'd said that many times. Most of them sarcastic. This was the first time it was actually true. He felt a strange sense of gratitude that for once in his life, he could just tell the truth, and he had someone to hear it.

After that, he was just lost, really. There was a lot of kissing. People called this fooling around, didn't they, just wasting time, because for once, there was time to waste. He let his fingers run over Steven's skin, the muscles of his arms. And he felt those hands on him again, on his biceps, running down his back, gripping his backside, and then reaching between them for his cock. Feeling that hand, closing around it, the thumb running up the underside and then over the top so that he felt the blood pump through it, and had to bite his own lip to keep control.

And then Steven was using every bit of his surprising physical strength to roll him onto his back, to get on top. He was happy to let it happen, a hand still cradling Steven's neck, fingers buried in the back of his hair, so they didn't have to break the kiss. Steven seemed like a blur of mouth and a tangle of legs, and a gorgeous, hard cock, rubbing now against his own. Brendan was aware of the silver cross, hanging down from Steven's neck, over him. And then he was being straddled.

"Got stuff?" Steven panted, pushing his weight up.

"Yeah," Brendan told him, gesturing to the cabinet by the bed. "Sure you're ready?"

He was met by Steven smiling breathlessly and leaning across to get what he needed. "Think we've waited long enough, don't you?"

Brendan thought he'd never seen anything as arousing as Steven, flushed, smiling, his cock standing up, leaning across in a hurry to rummage for condom and lube. He laughed.

"You know I can always wait for you, Steven."

He was aware that Steven was looking down at him. He laughed, breathless.

"Yeah, well you won't need to wait anymore, will you? I'm here, now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Steven planted his lips on Brendan's own. It was impossible not to open his mouth, to let Steven's tongue in, suck on it. As he felt Steven pull back to sitting, he sat up with him. His hands traced the muscles of Steven's lower back, his butt, as Steven stayed on his knees to roll on the condom. God, those hands. No one had hands like that. And then he lubed him up. After a few seconds of intense pleasure, Brendan took it out of his hands. "Here," he said, and poured enough onto his palm to get Steven ready as well. Then he chucked it aside. He looked up at Steven on his knees, one of Steven's hands on his head to steady him. His mouth was slightly open, his breathing coming quickly. Their eyes held for a long moment. Then Brendan planted a kiss on the belly in front of him, which quivered, just above his cock. And Steven bent down and hooked one arm around his neck, and kissed him. It was long and intense. They let it deepen. Then, when they came up for air, Steven just looked at him, very close.

"Missed yer," he said.

He didn't even wait for a reply before going back in for another kiss, which was a good job, because every possible answer to that was stuck to the roof of Brendan's mouth. It's only when you get someone back that you realize how much you've ached for them. And he had, ached. It had become normal for him, missing Steven. He hoped Steven was finally getting the message, how much it had hurt. But there are other ways of showing someone. And as Steven's hand was reaching behind him, and he was getting himself into position, now seemed like a good time to show him.

Some things are hard. And some things are easy. Making love to Steven was always easy. It was stopping that was hard. He took hold of his hip with one hand and reached for him with the other. Pressed into him with one finger first. Then two. Worked him into readiness while Steven's body seemed to droop against his with wanting it. And then withdrew, letting Steven position himself. He felt them make contact, and let Steven push down a little, gently.

"God," he heard Steven say, not much more than breathing it really. He seemed very still. Then both arms came round his neck. Then a mouth, finding his. Then pushing down. Wimpering a bit, but he felt every muscle in Steven's body relaxing around him, setting its own pace. All he had to do was wait. He let his fingers rub Steven's spine, then felt him adjust, pull back, and push down again, harder, until he was straddled right across Brendan's lap. He felt himself enclosed. It was insanely tight, as Steven relaxed into it, and then started to rock his pelvis, gently. But at the same time, amazing. Amazing to feel someone else's body moulded against his like that, Steven's cock pressed between their bellies. He rested his forehead against Steven's chest, felt Steven's hands cradling his head. Again, found his mouth close to the bright silver chain, against that warm skin. Waves of sensation washed over him. And then he let himself find a rhythm, and settle into it. It was like being washed away.

It was only when they came close to climax that Brendan felt a need to be back on top. He just wanted to be the one to look down and see the look on Steven's face. He found no complaints from Steven as he grabbed him by the hips, withdrew from his briefly, pushed him down onto his back on the bed, hooked his arms under Steven's legs, and thrust straight back into him with one movement. He was insane with desire for him now. All he wanted was for them both to come. He kept his movements long, and deep, and rhythmic, feeling the sweat building on his back, and break out on Steven's c hest.

"Brendan," he moaned, "Bren … please …"

Then reached for himself, with one hand. Brendan knew he was close to losing it. He watched Steven stroke himself, hard, his face and chest flushed, and moved harder, in time to the movements. It was like a wave, building. Like waiting for it to peak, the perfect moment. He used every ounce of self control to prolong the pleasure until Steven gave a strangled shout and he felt muscles clamp around him as spunk shot over Steven's belly. And then he let go. He was vaguely aware of a hand on his lower back. And a voice, "Yes … yeah …" And he thrust into him, and felt the wave crest and a surging in his ears, and a movement pushing him forwards. He thrust again. And again. It was like dying. But he never completely lost touch with the hand on his back, the face underneath him, the voice.

He let himself breathe. Looked down at Steven, panting, the start of a smile. A laugh. Pulled out, reaching for the condom, and throwing it aside. Then let his weight down again. He kissed him, wanting to find his mouth again, in a way he never had before afterwards, or not for a long time, anyway. And there was that feeling again. Of being held, of letting himself be held, Stevens arms and legs staying wrapped around him. Eventually, he rested his head on Steven's chest. Listened to his heartbeat, slowing, but strong, and steady, the way he never though he would again when he left him. Felt Steven's hand in his hair, raking. He was at eye level with the cross lying on Steven's chest, still bright. He lifted it with a finger.

"You'll have to watch that thing," he said, eventually, lazily. "Ye nearly had my eye out a couple of times."

Felt Steven's chest rise and fall, laughing.

"I'll remember that," he said.

Brendan ran his thumb over it, again. He had never really known why he had worn it. It was just something you did. A light, a constant, something to appeal to in a fucked up life, in a fucked up world. A promise, maybe that there might be a better him, living a better life, in a better world. But he had never really believed it. He was going to hell, and that was that.

And yet here he was, with his head on Steven's chest. And he loved him. And Steven loved him back. It had taken long enough to get there. Precisely as long as it had taken him to realize that loving someone did not mean having them. It meant being with them. Not the same thing at all. A lot more dangerous. And a hell of a lot more scary. Steven, unleashed in his life? Terrifying.

He let the cross drop back onto Steven's breast. Lifted his weight to come to lie beside him, his head propped on one arm. With the other, he stroked Steven's face. His thumb traced that mouth, full and satisfied. He had never completely understood Steven's ability to just be happy. He was braver than him, he realized. He went after what he wanted, instead of running away. It occurred to him that coming here was probably the bravest thing either of them had ever done.

"You're staying, then?" he asked him. He was only half joking.

Steven's own hand came up to his face now. He felt the stroke of a thumb along his own cheek. He was smiling again. Wide, teeth on show.

"Buy me a Guinness?" Steven asked.

"Naturally," Brendan said.

"Show me the sights?"

"Open-top bus, the lot."

"Show me off?"

There was a pause. He turned his mouth into Steve's hand for a moment, kissed the palm.

"I'm putting you in a burka, Steven, I can't handle the competition."

"Brendan!"

"I'm joking. I'll show you off, if ye like. I'm a lucky guy. That suit ye?"

Steven's face beamed. He ran his fingers over the tache, then pushed him away, playful.

"Yeah," he said. "You are. Don't forget it."

"You'll have to keep reminding me," Brendan said, looping an arm across him and pulling him closer.

Steven laughed. "How do I do that?" he asked him.

"We'll find a way," Brendan said, and bent his head down to him again.

He felt Steven's mouth open, his body mould into his, an arm around his neck, pulling him closer. He felt the cross lying between their chests, pressing into his skin. It was strange. Awkward, uncomfortable, and unfamiliar. But it was like being reborn.

And for the first time in his life, he actually felt blessed.


End file.
